


Besiege

by ag_sasami



Category: Blood-C
Genre: Amnesia, Exploitation, Gen, Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag_sasami/pseuds/ag_sasami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>verb (used with object)<br/>1. to lay siege to<br/>2. to crowd around; crowd in upon; surround<br/>3. to assail or ply</p>
            </blockquote>





	Besiege

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rekall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rekall/gifts).



> _I would really like something where Fumito is creeping on Saya who is unable to respond at that moment._
> 
> Happy Yuletide, Rekall! :) I hope you find this sufficiently creepy.

**I**

He sees a spark of her sometimes—the real Saya—before the drugs set in and shut down her mind. It's a bite of the guimauve and her eyes go red, her mouth a harsh slash across her face as the artificial sweetness of amnesia melts away. In those moments she is beautiful: violence, callous death embodied, a twisted thing in the body of a human.

Her hateful looks linger sometimes, in place until she falls to the strength of the chemicals; sometimes it is still fixed in place even as she loses her tenuous grasp on _knowing_ , eyes sharp and glowing while her mouth smiles distractingly soft. He pours her a second cup on those days, with the truth dangerously close to the surface.

 

 **II**

He gives her a strange dose one day, an oversight on his part, when a lack of sleep took from him the concentration to count scoops and track volumes. Saya fell silent after a bit—guimauve finished and coffee mug gone empty and cold—but failed to slip under into the coma sleep of the drug. He turns to find the monster's eyes on him, blood red and hateful under eyelids drooping with sleep. It's not a glare she gives him, not quite. But her mouth is twisted half way to fury and her eyes are still tracking beneath her heavy lashes. She sways a bit in her seat even with her arms braced casually on the counter. Her hair slips over her shoulder in the careless way sweet Saya never lets it.

It's bold—maybe foolish—of him that he leans across the counter into the monster's space. He tucks her hair back into place over her shoulder, sweet, naiive Saya again, except for the vertical slits, paper thin, where human pupils should be. His thumb he drags over her lower lip, reached out to where her mouth is parted in a gentle, "oh," lax with drugs. Her eyes flash bright and violent, hot like burning coals before the light fades.

He pulls away as Saya sighs. Sooty eyes blink away the false sleep as she says, "Your coffee is always so delicious."

 

 **III**

"You should drink some of the coffee. I hoped it might make you feel better if I brought it by, since you couldn't come for breakfast today," he says gently. It's just enough sheepish affection and genuine concern. Well, calculated genuineness at least.

"It always does," she grits out from beneath a smile.

"If you are happy, if the coffee makes you happy, you'll feel better faster." She nods, reaching for the proffered mug. It hits her hard and fast, and Saya's eyes go blank, unconscious while she remains upright. In the artificially dark room—curtains pulled closed and tied down tight—he seeks out her vanity.

Perfume.

Barrettes.

Tie pin and chain from her uniform.

He wraps his hands around the handle of her hairbrush and makes his way back to her futon. Saya is still upright, eyes open and unfocused, and most importantly, dark. Carefully he settles behind her on his knees with thighs bracketing her hips. It isn't as though she'll wake anytime soon, but he doesn't know how deep the _real_ Saya sleeps too; how far beneath the surface the coffee drowns her. The occasional game played with her barely conscious mind, when she isn't going to remember on waking next time, that's one thing. But it won't do to ruin the experiment by being careless.

Slowly, he runs his hands through her hair. It spills over her shoulders, soft, the barest hint of unruly curls where her hair grows new at the nape of her neck and just behind her ears. It's too long, too thick and heavy to do more than wave as it falls, but it would be fierce given the chance. With the hairbrush he smooths it down with long careful strokes. How angry she would be if he took a blade to it— _her_ blade maybe—and left it an unruly crown framing her forehead, her cheeks. Would the subtle violation wake the monster despite the drugs? The shudder that runs through him is more delight than fear, the thought of Saya unrestrained. For a moment, brief and indulgent, she is Samson: released with eyes aglow but kitten-weak without her hair.  

When her hair is sleek, shiny with his efforts, he arranges her gently back on her pillow. Futon tucked up under her chin, until Saya is swaddled beneath the heavy fabric, he clears away the mug, the thermos, the plate and dainty fork; she never uses it but he brings it anyway.

 

 **IV**

These days Saya sleeps more than she doesn't, and he can see the edges of his plan rolling up, a canvas burning in the wake of her building rage. It is with this tenuous grasp on his victory—so close but not yet come to fruition—that he takes liberties increasingly daring. Shackled, blood draining out of her in measured dose, Saya was a temptation if not a challenge. There was, as he saw it, no fun in taking from her with her hands bound, and her ankles. But there is something in the pliant restraint of her body betraying her. It still isn't a challenge, but the risk is certainly greater.

She is much closer to the surface these days. He doesn't bother to sedate her sweetness so heavily, not when a slighter dose keeps her temporarily conscious, furious.

Therein is the rush. His prize with her pale skin and fire eyes, immobile within the confines of her own body, bears witness to his indulgences only to slip under without recourse. But he sees the fight in her, the tense line of her spine and the frequency of her appearance even unprovoked. The line of what could possibly be acceptable in this arrangement probably doesn't exist, but he's taken to setting an arbitrary boundary every so often just to see how far past it he can push.

It's almost over, Saya gaining ever more mental footing and the actors conspiring so obviously (their attempts at hiding it so tragically ineffective) to bring the experiment to a close. How much time is left until it all unravels though, is less clear. This time, with the end inevitable if not indeterminate, he lets her watch. Ensures it. For all her innocence is cold and lifeless beneath her saccharine sweet stupidity, Saya is aflame; hot and slow burning and he can see every calculated revenge turn over fresh, pitifully new, in her eyes every time she claws her mind free.

After he's brushed her hair to a luster he lets his hands wander across Saya's skin with her mind paralyzed into a consciousness she won't remember. His fingers he presses into the skin of her throat and drags them up to splay beneath her chin, forcing her head back against his shoulder. The hairbrush is left forgotten on the floor beside the futon, and he fumbles with the buttons on her pajamas. With an unpracticed hand he works them open, a chill raising gooseflesh on her arms and stomach. He takes his time pushing the fabric down off each of her shoulders in turn, savoring the feel of the muscles beneath his palm. Against her throat his other hand is still the ghost of a threat as he rubs soothing circles into her neck with his thumb.

"I wonder if you'd still understand the nuance of my hands on your throat if the little lamb was awake," he whispers into the darkness. He runs his knuckles lightly across the flesh of her stomach, pauses to feel the hammer of her heart radiating down just above her navel. When he releases her throat, traces the sharp line of her collarbone instead—digging his thumb into the hollow at the base of her throat _just so_ —she snarls. The sound is a guttural thing forced out with great effort against the strain of immobilized vocal cords.

"Cheeky," he drawls. "Best keep that in check, Saya, dear. It's so _unfriendly_." The fingers he smears across her mouth—dips behind her lips and presses down on her tongue until her mouth levers open—are an unmet challenge. He holds her mouth open until she's drooling around his fingers and he laughs as he swipes them down her chin.

When he buttons her pajamas back up he leaves the top button undone.


End file.
